


Home Is Not A Place, It Is People

by dracofire87



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 18:16:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15176516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracofire87/pseuds/dracofire87
Summary: El Generico's, retired wrestler, has created a sanctuary where orphaned children can live and grow in peace. But when the weight of the world threatens to shatter Generico's refuge, help may come from the most unexpected directions.





	Home Is Not A Place, It Is People

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mithen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/gifts).



Out in one of the big stretches of not much in the Midwest of America, is an orphanage. (Sometimes it’s in Tijuana, but right now, it finds itself somewhere in that expanse between Colorado and West Virginia.) It’s run by a masked wrestler named El Generico, who left the wrestling life to take care of the children who needed him.

(Some people say he died, but they’re wrong. He retired.)

The orphanage is a big old farmhouse, with a wide porch and a green-painted door. It’s surrounded by a big, half-wild yard, and a wilder garden that nevertheless always overflows with produce; and beyond that are woods, sheltering the orphanage from prying eyes. There’s a long gravel driveway from the house that winds through the woods, with a battered mailbox at the end. It’s almost always sunny at the orphanage, and even the occasional rainstorm is kind.

Inside, the furniture is a mishmash of colors and styles, hand-me-downs from what seems like every age of man. But every chair is comfortable, and the sofa is perfect for napping on. The windows let in just enough light, and the beds are soft and covered in bright blankets. There’s a fat black and white cat that seems to live anywhere the sunlight is, or in warm laps.

There’s always children there, at the orphanage, some small, some bigger, of all backgrounds and skin tones. Sometimes a child will simply show up on the big porch, and Generico takes them in. Sometimes a child will leave, when they’ve grown up, or if they don’t need the orphanage anymore. The house is always full, but never crowded, and there’s always just enough room.

(Some of the children have parents, but all of the children are orphans. Generico understands that there’s more than one way to end up alone.)

Generico doesn’t speak much English, or much Spanish for that matter. But the children all seem to understand him just fine. He teaches them as best he can, tells them stories, keeps them safe. It’s not much. But it’s enough, all the same. It’s a special place, safe away from the world, cared for as much by an ideal, as by a man.

The children are happy there. There are small hurts, of course, small fears and worries, scrapes and bruises. But Generico kisses the bruises better, and sings the pain away. In Generico’s orphanage, there is always singing. He is kind, and laughs, and never raises his voice in anger to anyone, or his hand in violence. This is his sanctuary, and he likes it that way.

But even this sanctuary has limits.

~*~

One evening some of the children are watching cartoons, gathered around the orphanage’s single, small television. Generico sits at the back of the room, a benevolent presence, mending damaged pants and socks. A commercial comes on, and someone flips channels idly while they wait out the endless barrage of advertisements for toys and cereal. 

There is a pause, shocked and empty.

There is an image, on the screen, of a different kind of orphanage. One with concrete walls, and pens of chain link, and stiff plastic blankets across hard cots. There is a scramble to change the channel, to turn off the television. Too late. Too late to stop the room from filling with the sound of children screaming.

_“¡Mamá, mamá! ¡Papá, papá! ¿Dónde estás, mamá?”_

The silence that follows is more terrible than the screams. His orphans turn to Generico for comfort, but his hands are still and frozen. Without a word, Generico rises and leaves the room, leaving the mending unfinished. 

That evening, he stands outside, alone, as the wind rises to whip viciously through his coat, and no one dares approach him.

~*~

It rains for the next three days, bitter storms lashing the walls of the orphanage. One of the trees in the front yard surrenders to the wind with a rending crack, to lay shattered on the ground.

Generico wanders through the house like a ghost, his shoulders bowed as if beneath a breaking weight, voice silenced. His mask has turned from red to black, his eyes rimmed in red. He tries to smile for the children, but the expression is watery and weak. Everything seems fragile, cracked, warping beneath a terrible weight of reality.

There is no singing.

~*~

On the fourth day, the rain abates, though the skies remain grey-green and ominous. Generico peers up at the clouds as if bewildered. It as if the entire orphanage holds its breath.

There is a rumbling in the distance; not thunder, but the sound of engines and wheels. It grows louder, and louder, driving the silence away ahead of it. Then they see it: a caravan of vans and black SUVs, making its way up the winding driveway. The children gawk, filling the windows, as they pull up in front of the orphanage, and a host of men and women in all colors and shapes and sizes begins piling out.

One SUV holds three men in black tactical vests and black bandanas tied around their necks, totally different yet moving as one. From another steps four women: one blonde, regal, and tall; one dark and smiling, her arms covered in colorful bracelets; one poised, eyes casting about coolly beneath slatted sunglasses; one vibrating with energy, her hair dyed a vibrant, unnatural shade of orange. There’s a short man with a wild beard in a soft-looking flannel shirt, a towering woman with dark hair and olive skin, and a man in a leather jacket with a smile as luminous as his blue eyes, and more beyond him--a small army all assembled.

At their head is a man with a thick beard and a thick belly, with eyes as deep and dark as Generico’s. Generico comes out to meet him, standing silently on the porch steps, the big bear of a man waiting on the path below.

The silence between them holds a weight all its own; pain and love and an endless cycling history. And yet, it’s a weight that doesn’t burden, but anchors; echoing out and allowing the entire orphanage to breathe again.

“We heard. We came,” he says, voice quiet and husky. “To go...go to get them.”

Generico remains silent, but he nods, and the children can see his adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard. He hesitates, though, and the few steps between the two seem to yawn like a chasm. He looks back at the orphanage, at the boys and girls filling the windows and the doorway.

“Kevin. _Mi amo._ The _hijos_ \--” he says, and then his voice rasps into silence, as a figure makes its way up from the back of the crowd.

He’s a big, curly-haired, jowly man, bigger even than the big bear of a man facing Generico. He wears a rumpled gray suit, with a half-loosened black tie spotted with yellow dots. As he makes his way through the crowd of men and women, he seems to find a way to touch everyone he passes, yet never seems to have to push or raise a hand. Where he passes, people settle, smile, center themselves.

That he is not quite solid doesn’t seem to bother anyone.

“Hard times, brother, but we’ll get through,” he says, stepping past the other man and up onto the porch. The steps should creak under the weight, but he seems as light as the wind. He holds out his hand to Generico, and smiles wryly. “Wouldn’t be the first time ol’ Dusty’s looked after a pack of kids, would it?”

Generico hesitates once more--then reaches out and takes the ephemeral hand. All at once, the man seems to gain presence and weight, and the entire orphanage seems to solidify with him. It’s as if everyone allows themselves to relax, as the heavyset man pulls Generico into a hug, whispers something into his ear.

Everyone, except one. The big man, Kevin, at the foot of the steps, waits anxiously, his shoulders tense. He doesn’t look away from Generico, not even for a moment. Generico turns to him, the silence between them widening.

Then a thick hand pushes Generico down the steps.

Generico yelps, flails, falls. The children clutch each other. The assembled men and women twitch forwards, too late, too slow.

Kevin catches him out of the air without hesitating.

Everyone cheers; except Dusty, who just looks smug; and Kevin, who’s too busy pressing his forehead to Generico’s.

Eventually, they disentangle themselves. Generico hops back up the steps as the children flood out to gather around, and promises to each child in turn that he’ll return. To just hold on, for him. They promise, trying to look brave.

Then everyone piles back into the SUVs and vans, and the makeshift caravan rolls back down the driveway. Kevin and Generico lead the way.

~*~

Days pass. No more rain falls, but the grey clouds remain, with only the occasional peek of sun. Dusty chases away the silence in the house with laughter and a booming drawl, bear hugs and meals of simple, hearty foods. The children settle in to wait, but find their waiting interrupted by more visitors making their way up the long drive.

On the first day after Generico leaves, a burly man with a thick Russian accent and an unbelievably huge man with a wild beard and wild eyes arrive. They break up the fallen tree with saws and axes, wood chips flying everywhere, and the children watch in awe as the wild man heaves the stump out of the ground with his bare hands. They’re all afraid to approach afterwards, until the smallest of the girls comes forwards and takes his hands in hers, and smiles. He smiles back, slowly, and delights in lifting her up onto his shoulders.

On another day, the children are woken up by a loud cry of “IT’S A NEW DAY, YES IT IS!” and the scent of frying pancakes. The rest of the day is a near-riot of laughter and dancing, while one of the three newcomers sets up a den full of video game consoles and action figures, and takes on all comers in any game that they desire. 

One evening, everyone camps out in tents pitched in the yards around the house, roasting marshmallows and hotdogs, and running around in the sweet-scented grass. As dusk falls, three men with long hair and ragged beards walk out of the growing dark and settle themselves around the fire. Dusty eyes them, but lets them sit--and shivers along with the children as the three men tell the best scary stories they’ve ever heard. Flashlights are seen in the tents after that, long into the night--but when sleep finally comes, all the dreams they have are soft and soothing.

But still the children wait, even in the midst of pleasant distractions, hoping for the sound of engines coming up the drive.

~*~

A week after Generico leaves, the sun comes out. After so many days of clouds, it shines down like a beacon, seeming to make everything it touches gloriously new. The windows are thrown open, and the doors, and the house is flooded with the scent of sun-warmed grass.

And then, just as the sun rises up to its noontime height, the sound of singing drifts up the driveway and into the house. It grows louder, and louder, until the windows rattle with it and the sound resolves into words:

_“¡Olé, olé, olé, olé! ¡Olé~, olé!”_

The children rush out, joining in the song, as a caravan of dusty SUVs and vans pulls up the drive and halts in scattered disorder in front of the house. Their doors open and out pour a multitude of children, laughing and singing, some carrying other, smaller children. Amidst the flood are islands of adults; battered, bandaged, but triumph chases away the horror that lingers in their eyes. 

And at the center of it all, Generico--beaming, one arm looped around Kevin, the other hand twined tightly with that of a small, dark-haired boy. His mask is singed and a bandage loops one forearm--but the mask is red again, luminous and fiery in the noon sun. There’s a rush of bodies, a frantic exchange of hugs and shouts and tears. 

Only Generico and Kevin notice, amidst the melee, the big man in the gray suit, standing up on the porch and smiling down on the scene. He catches their eyes and gives a lazy salute--and when they blink again he’s gone.

“ _Muchos gracias, amigo,_ ” Generico whispers, the words lost to the ringing song that fills the air. He looks over at Kevin. Tears stream down the big man’s cheeks, but he’s smiling, and Generico laughs. “ _¡Mi amo!_ We did it!”

Kevin hugs him until his ribs creak.

The next week that follows is a whirlwind of activity; of hurried sleeping arrangements and the comforting of children; of endless phone calls made in rapid English and lots of broken Spanish. Kevin, at one point, harangues a politician so badly that he cries. (The children, on the other hand, cheer.) One by one, the vans and SUVs drive off, carrying people back to their homes, and children back to their families. 

Kevin is the last to leave, carrying a carload of children destined to meet their families at new homes in Canada. 

“I’ll come back,” he says. “I promise.” Generico just smiles, and nods, and hugs him again. 

He looks back in his mirrors for as long as he can, until the winding drive obscures Generico and his orphanage from view. 

~*~

Later that night, after the children are shepherded off to bed, Generico sits alone on the porch steps, looking up at the stars. Here, no light distracts from their glory, spreading out in endless depths above him.

Soft steps sound behind him. Someone settles down on the porch beside Generico, leaning back almost identically. The newcomer sighs, softly.

“It’s not the way it really happened, you know,” Sami says. “It’s just a story.”

Generico shrugs. “ _Es bueno_ story. Needs telling.”

Sami growls, a sound of distilled frustration. “What good does it do? We fight and we fight…”

Generico nods, emphatically. “ _Si._ We fight. So that...so that people sing.” Long fingers tap the spot above Sami’s heart. “For here.”

A soft exhale. “Hope.”

Laughter, soft and exultant. “ _¡Si! Si, bueno, amigo._ ”

Sami doesn’t laugh, but he does smile, and it’s enough. He rises, steps down off the porch, stops. “Keep...keep taking care of them for me, Generico. Keep this story alive.” He looks back, face shadowed. “Please.”

Generico simply smiles. “ _Olé, amigo._ ”

Sami’s smile is sudden and luminous, and a weight seems to lift off of his shoulders. He walks off down the driveway, into the night, and soft singing drifts into the night air behind him.

“ _¡Olé, olé, olé, olé! ¡Olé~, olé!_ ”

~*~

Somewhere in the world, there’s an orphanage, run by a masked wrestler named El Generico. What it looks like...doesn’t matter. It looks like whatever you need it to be. And if you’re tired, weary of fighting, you can stop by for a while, and Generico will take care of you too. He’ll mend your socks, and make you laugh, and let you cry on his shoulder for a while if you need to. 

All he asks, is that when you return to the world, you carry his song and his story with you.

The story of hope.

Keep it alive, will you?

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to Mithen's most excellent essay at www.thespectacleofexcess.com, "The Angel in the Marble." (Please go read it, it made me cry!) Also, please consider donating to Sami Zayn's most excellent charity, "Sami for Syria," which helps fund medical care for children in Syria, which might otherwise be unavailable due to the civil war currently going on in the region.


End file.
